


Make an Effort

by DragonThistle



Series: Days You Think You'll Forget (but I kept a scrapbook full of polaroids) [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mild Language, implied mental health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26859457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonThistle/pseuds/DragonThistle
Summary: The least you can do is give a shit about yourself.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), maybe queer platonic if you really want, platonic friendships - Relationship, they're basically family all right
Series: Days You Think You'll Forget (but I kept a scrapbook full of polaroids) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959427
Kudos: 23





	Make an Effort

Tom hisses through clenched teeth and bats half heartedly at Edd’s hands. Edd brushes him aside and continues dabbing at the deep scrape on his friend’s forehead with the hydrogen peroxide soaked cloth. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t knock yourself out. Or give yourself a concussion.” Edd grumbles, tossing the square of fabric aside and searching for an appropriately sized plaster, “Maybe if you’d had, you would’ve learned a lesson…”

“Been there, done tha’,” Tom grunts, his words still slurring at the edges from the alcohol sitting heavy in his system, “Didn’ learn shit.”

“Yeah, I know.” Edd’s voice is an uncharacteristic growl. He presses the plaster down a little harder than necessary, making Tom flinch away, “And guess who has to clean up after you every time you make a mess? Me!”

“Nice ta’ know someone gives a shittabout me in this house…” Tom mumbles, glaring at the floor. He ignores Edd’s frown, focusing his attention on the bathmat under his bare feet. When had he taken his socks off?

“Hey, fuck you!”

Edd shoves him, making Tom slip off the edge of the tub and bang his head against the shower wall. He’s struggling to reorient his sprawled limbs and spinning thoughts when Edd looms over him, thunder cloud scowls and a knife edge of disappointment,

“If we’re all putting in the effort to care about you, the least you could do is give a shit about yourself!”

“Why!?” Tom shoots back, half rising out of the bathtub, not quite finding his balance, “So you guys don’t get sad!? So you can keep pretending everything’s all hunky-dory and sunshine fucking lollipops rainbows _bullshit_!?” He’s shouting and his voice is cracking and there’s a burn in the corner of the black holes where his eyes should be, “Because _heaven forbid_ something isn’t perfect in Edd’s happy little small world after all mother fucking—“

“Can you just accept that some people _genuinely care about your stupid ass_!?”

The words are so loud that they ring in the small bathroom, fizzling out in the silence after they’re shouted. Edd’s fists and jaw are clenched tight, his gaze daring Tom to contradict him. And Tom wants to, god he wants to. He wants to keep arguing, keeping up the bickering and the yelling, wants to escalate until they’re throwing fists and everything else is forgotten in a whirlwind of gasping breaths and wild punches and savage kicks and blood and bruises and wheezing laughter because everyone in this house is just so _fucking stupid_. 

They don’t _talk_ about stuff, not in this house, not the four of them, not like this. They poke fun and provide healthy distractions like harmless fistfights and binge drinking until you’re sick. They’re too stupid to therapy each other. And yet here is Edd, sharp around the edges like he never usually is, scowling with disappointment and frustration and a light dusting of worry to top it all off. It’s like poison injected right into the heart of the house.

Tom’s mouth taste like garbage and he hasn’t even thrown up yet. 

“Why would any of you,” The words are sticky, laying thick over his clumsy tongue, the anger festering in his chest not quite reaching his voice, “Give a _flying fuck_ about someone like me?”

“God, I dunno Tom, maybe because you’re out friend? Is that too hard to understand?”

“Yeah, actually.”

That pulls Edd up short. 

He’s still frowning but it’s a different meaning now, one Tom can’t quite suss out and is too tired to try and understand completely. It’s probably pity. It is, inevitably, always pity. Tom takes the opportunity to heave himself out of the tub the rest of the way, stumbling a few steps to prop himself against the sink. He expects Edd to stop him, to grab his arm and throw him back down and snap at him, to give any excuse to break the weird tension between them. It’s something brittle and foul smelling and Tom desperately wants it to shatter.

Instead, he shuffles towards the bathroom door, carefully measuring the distance between his head and his feet—it feels like years. His shoulder hits the doorframe and he stumbles back, sideways, thuds against the opposite side and slumps there momentarily to get his balance. He’s made this trek before and he’ll make it again. 

“Hey, Tom…”

What _now_.

Tom doesn’t bother turning, he just shoves his hands into his pockets and grunts.

Edd’s eyes are on him, dancing between pity and something similar to solidarity. Tom can feel it burning into his back and it makes him hunch his shoulders.

“Maybe don’t drink by yourself next time, ‘k. Let’s, I dunno, go to a bar or somethin’. Get me a rum ’n coke.”

That draws out a bark of a laugh, part disbelief, mostly pleasant surprise. The anger simmers down into a comfortable burn, warming Tom’s chilling skin. He chuckles, pushing himself off the doorframe and tottering off down the hall towards his bedroom. The alcohol is tugging at the corners of his eyes and pushing heavily against his skull, eager to force a hangover before he’s had a chance to ride his buzz to sleepytime junction. 

Footsteps follow him partway down the hall, “Tom…?”

Tom waves a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgement, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can’ believe yer gonna make me haul you lightweights home iffin’ we go drinkin’…fuckin’ unbelievable…rum ’n coke…honestly…the fuck…”

He mutters to himself all the way to his bed. The blankets are messy and the pillows are everywhere and he’s still in his jeans but it doesn’t matter. It’s safe and familiar. Tom’s letting his eyes drift closed when he catches sight of a blurry outline framed in the doorway, backlit in darkness from the hall light. As they reach out to shut the door, Tom swears he hears them wish him a goodnight.

But maybe that’s just wishful thinking tangling with the sleep already pulling him down into a soft and comfortable darkness.


End file.
